Since Mike asked for it...
It was in the mid-1970s and I was hunting the Valentine Refuge with a good friend. We had gotten about a mile and a half back into the hills separated by 150 yards or so when a huge fog bank rolled in. I hollered and blew my whistle but the fog shut every noise down. I could only see about 25 yards and had no idea what my directions were. I had my compass, an insistant gift from my Dad, on a lanyard around my neck. I knew that if I went straight south I would hit the two track east of the truck. I took a bearing on a yucca 20 yards away, got there totally turned around, took another bearing, rinse, repeat, rinse repeat, et al. And then I hit the two track, turned west found the truck, honked the horn to signal my buddy and heard him say, from 20 yards away, "I'm right here." I couldn't see him at all. Fortunately, we both had followed the same plan; me on the east side of the ridge, he on the west. I never leave the truck without a compass, not for forty years.
